


hand in glove

by takecourage



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Catholic guilt but make it horny, Codependency, F/M, Unhealthy Relationships, evil and loving it!, murder angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:47:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26697718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takecourage/pseuds/takecourage
Summary: Violetta, Ludo, and the dead woman at their feet.(or, just over a thousand words of Violetta saying fuck it and embracing her evil side)
Relationships: Ludo Talenti/Violetta Talenti
Comments: 12
Kudos: 8





	hand in glove

_Oh darling_ he whispers into her hair, holding her so close and so tight. _Oh, my darling._

She is crying and she is laughing, her breath coming in ragged bursts, her entire body shaking. She is his darling. She only has the faintest memories of _not_ being his darling.

_There, there. Don’t cry, my darling, don’t cry._

He is a patronising, ruthless bastard and she loves him, loves him so much it hurts.

_You’ve done so well, so, so well._

Oh, but she fucking hates him too.

The dead woman lies at her feet, her skull in dull grey fragments and the faint light of the morning glinting dully along the whorls of her brain. Not a woman anymore. An it.

It would be so easy to tear herself from his grasp, to hit him, to turn and run, to scream _YOU DID THIS TO ME._ But she doesn’t. She wanted it. She wanted to try it. And now she is a killer, she crushed life itself between her fingers as easily as killing a bug.

She goes to church, sits at the back, rubbing the cross around her neck between her thumb and forefinger, she tries to repent. The priest drones on about forgiveness as the incense chokes her. She thinks about strong hands around her neck, choking her in a different way, about being on her knees in front of the altar, in front of him, always under the eyes of God. His fingers knot in her immaculate hair and she makes an angry noise around his cock — if she doesn’t have her perfection, the light shining in her hair like a halo, what does she have? She looks up at him under her eyelashes at him, her eyes dark and glassy and doll-like. She looks at the Virgin Mother, her stone cheeks soft, three perfect tears dripping from her unmoving eyes, and nearly smirks. She’s on the precipice of defiance, of a blasphemy so deep she could never take it back, even if she wanted to, something that would need _punishment_ and she has to squeeze her thighs together at the thought. He groans an _oh, dio_ and cums in her mouth, like a priest giving her communion. It’s dirty. It’s wrong. She loves it with a deep, burning shame writhing in her stomach. The guilt only makes her need it more.

The dead woman at her feet means they’ll have money again. They’ll be rich.

She thinks of all the new things she’ll buy. Skirts, shoes, jewellery. A fur coat to stay warm in this godforsaken country.

He thinks she’s shallow for it. It’s just easier than thinking about what they’ve done. She drifts through high street after high street, laden with bags. She points at what she wants and the shop girls fall over themselves getting it for her. _You look lovely, miss,_ they say, and she looks at herself in their full-length mirrors, admiring herself from every angle, smoothing her hands over the fabric, and she smiles. _Yes,_ she says, in love with the way the light makes this dress shine or the way this skirt clings to her, _yes, I do._

She’ll take a taxi home, right to her door, and the driver will be grateful for it and help her with her bags. She will empty out all those bags, all tied with ribbon and all her new, pretty things wrapped carefully wrapped in tissue paper. She will spin around the room, her favourite new dress held against her, her favourite new shoes on her feet, and she will eventually put them away. And she will have all these new things and they won’t do anything to fill the void in her heart.

Over dinner, he will make patronising remarks about her frown, and she will make excuses about missing home as her eyes fill with tears, and before they can even have dessert he will have brought them tickets to the ballet, the best seats in the house, nothing less for his darling, because that’s what she misses the most, isn’t it?

She asked for a fur coat. He got her a whole wardrobe of fur coats.

She wanted to go Vienna. He took her to Vienna.

She wants. He gives.

She loves him. She hates him. He’s the only person she can stand to be around anymore. She loves him because he loves her; no-one else will have her now, and she won’t have them. She thinks that maybe, maybe, they were always meant for each other; not so much cut from the same cloth as fallen from the same star.

When she first met him, she was so tired, so cold, so hungry, so naive and so used to stories she thought he was an angel. He was anything but. And she fell for him anyway, in defiance of everything. He picked her up and broke his bread in half to share with her. It was still warm, fresh, with garlic and rosemary baked into it.

It was not like Hades and Persephone. Persephone did not want to be taken. She did, and so she was.

She gets everything she wants, just like when she was little. She gets everything she wants and she still always wants _more._

And so she killed that woman, that _thing,_ easily. Too easily. Swung a metal pipe over its head again and again until it was dead, and then did it again. And her love holds her as she cries and laughs and shakes, murmuring delightedly into her hair. The feeling is far, far too big for her body. She feels powerful, and she’s in love with it; the power, and the money that will follow. She’s drunk on it, messily, painfully, exquisitely drunk. She wants to do it again. She wants to fall to her knees in front of an altar and plead forgiveness and get obliterated on communion wine.

Does this make her evil, or is it just another bad thing? It doesn’t _feel_ evil. The frenzied war of _feeling_ is tearing her apart from the inside, burning her, and she finds she starts liking it. Tears still pour down her prettily flushed cheeks as she stops shaking, and she smiles, smiles with the kind of bliss she was not meant to find on this Earth. It feels _good_.

She will burn.

They will both burn, hand in hand; Violetta and Ludo Talenti, forever each other’s Heaven and each other’s Hell.

At least they will be warm.

**Author's Note:**

> thank u tumblr user jasmiinitee for making violetta actually interesting i hope i did her justice !


End file.
